


my anchor, rescue me

by tryslora



Series: 12 Days of Tropemas 2018 [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 12DaysOfTropemas, Derek Hale is Stiles Stilinski's Anchor, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Near Death Experiences, Stiles Stilinski is Derek Hale's Anchor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 13:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17183843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: Stiles has been wandering for hours, but it feels like days. He's beginning to wonder if he'll ever find the witch and collect the magical whatsit, or if he's going to be wandering this path through the woods forever.





	my anchor, rescue me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [froggydarren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggydarren/gifts).



> This was written for the 12 Days of Tropemas day 4 prompt of Rescue Mission.

“Go pick up the strange magical thing, Stiles,” he mutters under his breath as he trudges through the woods. “The witch doesn’t like werewolves, Stiles. It has to be you, Stiles. It won’t take long, just get it done, Stiles.” He stops and looks behind himself on the path.

It stretches through the trees, curving just out of sight to the left. Ahead of him, it curves to the right. For all Stiles knows, the path could be a giant circle because it feels a little like he’s been hiking for hours.

Not that he knows, since his watch stopped fifteen minutes after he entered the woods.

“Don’t step off the path, Stiles,” he grumbles. “Thanks, Deaton. Not a bit of actual, useful advice in two hours of briefing before this oh-so-fun mission. Pretty sure this path leads nowhere, there is no witch or any kind of magical thingamajig, and I’m going to be lost in the woods until I’m thirty. God. I’ll be old.”

He trudges forward again, his feet aching in his boots. No watch, no phone—he lost signal before his watch stopped working. He can’t tell if it’s been hours or just minutes that feel like hours. His stomach grumbling isn’t any help for time; Stiles is twenty-one and he is always hungry. The perils of having a late growth spurt on top of burgeoning magical energy.

Wait.

Magical energy.

“It would help if you could remember you’re a wizard once in a while, Stiles. Shake off the shackles of your Muggle belief system and do a little magic.” Stiles lowers himself to sit on the ground. This isn’t actually Harry Potter, and magic takes it out of him. A lot. Which is why it isn’t usually the first thing to spring to mind as a solution.

If he could throw magic missiles without worrying about it, he would. But falling over is a definite consideration, so he does his best to take care.

He digs around in his bag, pulls out the satchel of small items that he keeps carefully separate. No needle. Frowning, he digs further, yanking his hand back out when he pricks his fingertip. He opens the bag carefully and finds the needle pointing up, a droplet of blood on the tip. “What are you doing there?” he mutters.

Not that it matters. Past Stiles apparently did a terrible job of repacking his bag, which, while it’s a problem, can be more of a problem for future Stiles. Current Stiles has to find the little tin—ah yes, there, upside down and strangely damp—and his water bottle. He lifts the water bottle and frowns to see that it’s only half full. Again he blames past Stiles for not thinking this through, as he pours just enough to float the needle in the cup and quickly pulls his energy in around him, then sends it into the metal of the needle.

“Point me the way,” he murmurs, and the needle swings around in a circle before settling. He struggles slowly to his feet and takes a step in that direction, and the needle swings again. Four more steps, four changes in direction.

Maybe magic isn’t going to work.

He spills out the water and drops the needle and cup back in his bag; he’ll put them away correctly later. When he starts walking down the path again, his head spins, and he finds himself sitting on the ground abruptly.

“Tired, Stiles?” he asks himself. “You’ve only been wandering around for hours apparently.”

Long enough that his feet do ache. And that little bit of magic took even more out of him than he expected. He can feel it deep in his bones, and he’s not sure he’s got enough energy to do more than make a ball of light at this point.

A very small ball of light.

He holds out the palm of his hand; a light the size of a firefly flickers to life and dies just as quickly.

Okay, maybe not even a very small ball of light.

Stiles closes his eyes. “It’s not like there’s anyone else around,” he mutters. “I won’t leave the path. I’ll just sit right here and take a short nap. I’m wearing enough warning devices that I should light up like a magical Christmas tree if anything dangerous gets close.”

He breathes in, exhales as his breathing slows. Yeah. A nap sounds like a really good idea.

_Shit! We’re losing him. Derek, get—_

“Derek, what?” Stiles mumbles, his eyes flickering open. He blinks. Nothing has changed. He’s still on the path in the forest. The sun is still at the same place in the sky. He’s still exhausted.

And pissed. Really, truly pissed to have been sent on this useless mission that’s had him walking all day.

Not to mention feeling like he’s been walking for several days.

“Fuck.” He pushes to his feet, wavering. He doesn’t last long before he sits again. “Was I this tired before? I feel like—like there’s nothing left. Just… nothing.”

_Derek, stop—_

_Yes, I’m sure that Stiles is—_

_Just go!_

Stiles blinks, twists in place without standing. He swears he hears Scott, and… he’s not sure who else. Deaton, maybe. Kira. Malia? He’s having trouble identifying the voices.

Which… great, now he’s hearing things.

“Not only am I talking to myself, but I’m talking to the voices in my head,” Stiles mutters. “This gets better and better. As far as magical errands go, I’m giving this one a solid F.”

 _Stiles_.

He twists to look over his shoulder. “What?”

No one is there.

 _Stiles_.

He pushes to his feet, stands with his feet spread and hands out, trying to keep his balance. He’s still alone, and he yells at the trees. “What?”

“Stiles.”

He pinwheels backwards, almost falling before Derek catches him. “What the hell are you doing here?” Stiles demands. “You know the witch doesn’t like werewolves.”

Derek grips his shoulders, and Stiles sags in his hold, letting Derek take his weight. When Derek pulls him closer, Stiles doesn’t argue. It feels good to lean against Derek’s chest, wrap his arms around him and hold himself up.

Derek runs his finger along Stiles’s cheek, and it’s strangely affectionate. Quiet, and soft in a way that Derek never is. Stiles’s gaze narrows. Something’s not right here.

“It turns out the witch doesn’t like werewolf adjacent magic users, either,” Derek says quietly. “Stiles….”

Stiles pushes at him, stumbles backwards and ends up on his ass, dangerously close to the edge of the path.

_Derek, hurry it up. What are you waiting for?_

_Just give me a minute_.

That. That’s Derek, that’s his voice. Harsh and snapping. Irritable with an edge of a growl. That’s Derek, not this.

Stiles stares at him, wary. “What’s going on? You’re not Derek.”

“Actually, I am.” Derek crouches without approaching. “Stiles, I need you to listen to me, and I need you to pay attention. Don’t interrupt.”

“Would I—”

Derek growls, and Stiles stops speaking.

“The witch found you a week ago,” Derek says quietly. “You’ve been missing since then, and we just got you back. She’s taken care of—turns out the thing you were sent in to get was a ruse. She wanted to suck your energy dry, and she was happy to turn that energy back on any wolves that came close. You’re dying, Stiles.”

This is definitely not good news.

“Deaton says that there is one thing that can bring you back.” Derek holds out his hand, palm up. “He needs you to take hold of your anchor and not let go. The more intimate the hold, the better. You’ll draw on my energy, and that’ll stabilize you. It’s going to take some time before you’re back to full, but we can get you out of the woods.”

Right. When someone gets out of trouble, they are out of the woods.

Stiles is literally in the woods right now.

Which would be a really funny pun, except….

His gaze narrows. “My anchor?”

“Me,” Derek says.

It’s true. Stiles has known it for a long time, probably a good five years since he figured it out, back when he was still in college. But he didn’t think Derek knew.

He didn’t think anyone knew.

“Will you take hold?” Derek asks, and his voice shakes. “Because you’re in bad shape, and I don’t want to lose you. And if I can anchor you, I will.”

Stiles comes to his hands and knees, crawls the short distance to kneel in front of Derek. He reaches for him, tangles their fingers together and it’s like the world suddenly stabilizes around him. He inhales roughly, shivering. “Why? You don’t care—”

“I care,” Derek interrupts him. “You’re my anchor, Stiles. And I don’t want to let you go.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees. He can hear chatter in the recesses of his mind, louder but indistinct, and the voices sound vaguely panicky. He uses Derek as leverage and somehow they both get to their feet. Stiles leans in, lets Derek take his weight again as he leans there, hands on his chest. He can feel the solidity of Derek’s heart beating under his palm, and he takes comfort from that sign of life. “What do we do?”

Derek cradles his face with the palm of his hand. “Intimate is better,” he says. “Can I—?”

Stiles pushes up, reaching for the kiss as an answer. Sound crashes into him as soon as his lips meet Derek’s, but he tries to ignore it, just holds on tight, his fingers gripping Derek’s shirt. He kisses as if his life depends on it, since according to Derek, it does.

_Yes!_

_He’s doing better._

_Derek, just keep—yeah, that._

Stiles’s eyes flicker open, and he winces from the light. He’s lying on a bed, with Derek stretched out next to him, half over him. Derek has one hand next to his shoulder, the other cradling his face gently, and he’s close enough that he must have just pulled back.

“I thought we were going to lose you,” Derek whispers.

“My prince charming, woke me with a kiss.” Stiles reaches for him, tugs gently but gives him a chance to say no.

Derek doesn’t say no.

He can breathe easier when the kiss ends. He’s still exhausted, but he only feels like he was hit by a car, not the entire length of a freight train. Stiles pats Derek’s cheek, and Derek lies down next to him, face pressed into the crook of Stiles’s neck like he needs to just keep breathing his scent in.

“So,” Stiles says softly, utterly aware that there must be other people around. Nearby, or maybe in the next room. “If I’m your anchor, and you’re my anchor, does that mean we could’ve been doing this kissing thing for a while now, and we just never thought to mention it to each other?”

“Anchors aren’t always romantic,” Derek mutters into Stiles’s skin. He nips then, and despite the exhaustion, Stiles feels that travel south rapidly.

“I’d say this one is.” Stiles squirms to get comfortable. “Romantic and physical. So. Is kissing still on the table the you aren’t on a mission to rescue me?”

Silence.

Stiles is aware of the way his heart beats, slow and steady despite his nerves.

“Yes,” Derek whispers into his skin. “Always, yes.”

“Good. And same. In case you were worried about that, because I want to be clear.” Stiles curls closer, wraps an arm around Derek and exhales as he closes his eyes. “We’ll talk about everything else when I have enough energy to do more than lie here, limply. Because limp is not helpful in most situations regarding romanticism and physicality.”

Derek huffs a soft laugh. “Shut up, Stiles.”

Yeah, that’s all a problem for future Stiles. Current Stiles is fine right where he is, with Derek, and hoping that the rest of the pack stays away for now. “Thank you for rescuing me,” he whispers. “My prince.”

And he finally, safely, can rest.


End file.
